


Vicbourne Advent Fest Calendar

by rosncrntz



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Advent, Advent Calendar, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Modern AU, Vicbourne Advent Fest, a little Christmas angst, period setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 16,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8714839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosncrntz/pseuds/rosncrntz
Summary: 25 days of 1000-word max Vicbourne stories, leading up to Christmas. Little one shots based on one-word Christmas prompts. Basically, happy festive Victoria and Melbourne.





	1. Gingerbread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria likes gingerbread. She always has. One day, she decides to offer some to her dear Lord Melbourne.

When the evenings crept into darkness, and the nights became bitterly cold, Queen Victoria took great pleasure in the little things that reminded her of her childhood. In the springtime, she had little regard for such ‘menial’ pleasures but, as soon as the winter took hold, they became her greatest source of joy.

She would curl up beside the crackling fireplace, drifting in and out of sleep, comforted by the warmth of Dash who would be balled up in her lap, nose twitching and paws flicking in the midst of a dream. She would play the sorts of songs that she used to hear at Christmas: tunes of great joy and glad tidings, in the early hours of the morning when her sleep was restless. She would enjoy the snow and the sound of bells. The smells of spices and a log fire were blissful to her. But, most of all, she would find herself eating (and eating in great excess) gingerbread.

Gingerbread was a great German tradition and Victoria had been very fond of it since she was very young. The spices tickled her tongue and sent tingles through her nose but the sugar soothed until it was the sweet treat she knew and adored. Christmas was not Christmas without gingerbread, as far as the Queen was concerned, and therefore the chefs were given express instructions to make it quickly, well, and on mass.

“Would you like some, Lord M?” Victoria held a silver platter at arm’s-length (unwise, as the weight of a pile of gingerbread at arm’s length almost caused her to spill it over the poor Prime Minister).

“Biscuits, Ma’am?” he replied, eyeing the confections, slightly wary of the impending threat of a place of gingerbread falling on him.

“ _Lebkuchen,_ ” the Queen replied, simply, thrusting the plate a little closer to him. “Gingerbread.”

Melbourne took one of the discs, turning it over in his fingers, thanking the Queen, and taking a bite of it. A few crumbs spilled from his mouth, and he exclaimed. The Queen laughed.

“Is it crumblier than you imagined, Lord M?” she giggled, enjoying seeing her Prime Minister in a state of disarray, however mild. He was normally so polished and proper: even to see him with a couple of crumbs sitting on his necktie was enough to bring a pinkish tinge to her cheeks. He swallowed, chuckling slightly, and replied,

“It is fine gingerbread, Ma’am, softer than I am used to!” He wiped his mouth as he spoke, a little red in the face, but exuding charm as he always did.

“Then you have never had truly well-made gingerbread, Lord M! This is how it is supposed to be. It was almost all I would eat as a child!” Melbourne thought that must be the cause of the Queen’s rapid temper and stubborn nature: too many spices in her blood. “It always makes me think of Christmas. Christmas as a child is the most wonderful time, don’t you agree, Lord M?” she asked, eyes wide and sparkling with the remembrance of magic.

“Yes, of course,” Lord M replied, a little more cynically than the Queen. He had lived more years since the days of Christmas wonder, and in those days, he had grown up.

“There is a German custom, to decorate a tree at Christmas. And bring it indoors. Did you know that?”

“I believe Queen Charlotte held a party in which such a tree was a feature… in… 1800?” he paused in thought. He could not quite remember.

“Yes! I remember being thirteen, and having a Christmas tree. After dinner, we then went into the drawing-room near the dining-room. There were two large round tables on which were placed two trees hung with lights and sugar ornaments. All the presents being placed round the trees. It was marvellous!" Melbourne smiled, heart speeding quietly, enjoying the Queen's folly. "Why is not such a tradition widespread here in England?”

“I do not believe it will catch on, your Majesty,” he said, picturing the most archetypal Englishman he knew – Robert Peel – placing candles on the branches of trees. The image made him chuckle. He took another bite of gingerbread, this time more elegantly. “Gingerbread, however, is a German import that I can thoroughly endorse!” He turned his eye to the Queen. “That, and _you_ , Ma’am.”

His tone was flirtatious. It made Victoria’s heart flutter. His eyes, strangely heavy-lidded, exposed her.

When she took her next bite of gingerbread, she noticed that her mouth was very dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Day 1 : Gingerbread. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	2. Ghost Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria and Melbourne discuss a particular ghost story.

“You have said you are not keen on the works of Charles Dickens, isn’t that right, Lord M?” the Queen asked. Charles Dickens was not a topic often touched upon by the pair – for exactly the reason she illustrated: Lord Melbourne was not interested in Dickens.

“No, Ma’am, I am afraid his work does not interest me,” Melbourne replied, absent-mindedly studying the new curtains hung on the windows of the east-facing drawing room of Buckingham Palace. They were a rich shade of red, velvet, very like the curtains that fall over a stage once a play is done. They were very fine and, Melbourne thought, exceptionally festive. He wondered whether the choice was purposeful, with the coming of the Christmas season. Victoria could see Lord M’s lack of interest in the subject she raised, but was not dissuaded.

“I disagree with you.” She was defiant. Melbourne raised his eyebrows, interest piqued by the Queen’s audacity, a smirk playing across his lips: he quite liked it when the Queen challenged him.

“ _Ma’am?_ ”

“I think Dickens’ work is marvellous,” she said, plainly, sticking her chin in the air, nose following closely with it. Melbourne chuckled at her fervent contrariness over a subject as trivial as the works of Charles Dickens. She, too, was enjoying being headstrong a little too much.

“I am glad to hear that, Ma’am.”

“A Christmas Carol: have you read that?”

“Um, no, Ma’am. I have not.”

“Oh, you should!” she cried. _Was that an order from his sovereign? Was she commanding him to real Charles Dickens’ new works on pain of death?_ Her voice was a little too stern for this to be entirely a joke, but a little too light for Melbourne to fear her. Of course, Melbourne could never really be afraid of the Queen.

“The usual affair, I assume, Ma’am?” he asked, taking a leisurely stroll towards where Victoria sat, reflecting on his reading of Oliver Twist. All grotesque descriptions and poverties and prostitutes. Things he had to deal with in his job, so why should he have to deal with such things in his literature? No, he would rather read an anthology of Lord Byron’s poems and, understandably, such a task would be an ordeal. “Hardships, workers, and suchlike?”

Victoria opened her mouth to gush an agreement, to tell Lord M of the cruelty of Scrooge, and how she wept over the Cratchits: how she found herself quite besotted with the sweet Bob Cratchit and his poor family – particularly Tiny Tim and the crutch he was forced to wield. But, then, she remembered how Lord Melbourne would not find pleasure in such a story of _‘hardships, workers, and suchlike’_. And she remembered what she found particularly engaging about this story.

“No, actually, not entirely. It’s a ghost story, you see.”

Melbourne, taken aback by this claim, sat beside the Queen. _Dickens writing ghost stores?_ It did not seem to be his niche. Not just that, but a ghost story for Christmas? What a strange thing! Curious, he replied,

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes,” Victoria began, heart being led asunder by the memory of the book which she had only recently finished indulging in. She remembered how her blood run cold when Scrooge heard the rattling chains of the deceased Jacob Marley. She remembered the bawdy Fezziwig ball crammed with red-faced, round-bellied guffawing gentleman and their wives who were just as red-faced and round-bellied, and guffawed more than their husbands. She remembered how affrighted she was upon the arrival of the ghost of Christmas future. Oh, what a dreadful creature! But, oh! What an ending! “Scrooge, the protagonist, you see? He is visited by three ghosts: Christmas past, present, and future.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. And he goes through this wonderful transformation! There’s this family and… oh, no, you won’t be interested,” Victoria’s voice faded out into silence as she stopped her mouth.

“A Christmas Carol, you say?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Victoria, seized with the excitement of thinking Melbourne might read the book, stifled a gasp before replying,

“Yes, yes, that’s it!”

Melbourne smiled a little, and made a mental note. He would be sure to look at the book, read it – for it would not take him long – and indulge the Queen in a lengthy conversation about it, for she was so passionate and he knew it would make her happy. It did. She smiled.

_And so, as Lord Melbourne observed, God bless Us, Every One!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Day 2 : Ghost Stories. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	3. Karaoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the annual Christmas office party and William really doesn't want to sing.

William had always hated karaoke. He had spent many an office Christmas party desperately trying to avoid it: declining all offers and keeping his head well and truly down once the microphones had been cracked out and the ABBA songs played over the speakers at full blast. It was the sort of thing that woke him up in the dead of night, gasping in a cold sweat.

This Christmas party was no different. Whilst Ernest belted a rendition of ‘Last Christmas’ that was so cringingly bad it brought a tear to the eye, William sat in a shadow he’d found and desperately avoided eye contact.

Emma, sober and sensible as usual, approached the table where William lurked, and pulled up a chair beside him. She did not like to see him looking so solemn, especially at Christmas. Being teetotal had its perks: firstly, one could offer meaningful advice and, secondly, and perhaps more importantly, you had enough sense to realise that no one wants to listen to you singing ‘Last Christmas’, especially if you can’t sing.

“Humbug.”

William rolled his eyes and chuckled,

“Just because I’m not singing George Michael doesn’t mean I’m not having a good time,” he said, picking up his glass and taking a swig.

“You’ve sat here all night. You need to join in! They’re looking for karaoke partners. Victoria-” Emma began before she noticed William’s breath hitch at the name. Oh, of course. “Is that why you’re sat here? William, you can’t just avoid her. She’s your boss!”

“I’m not avoiding her; I’m just keeping my distance! And, besides, karaoke is my worst nightmare, you know that! And particularly karaoke with her.”

“So you’re just going to keep staring wistfully at her from a distance? You’re an adult, William. So is she. You’re lonely. As far as I know, so is she. Ask her out for a drink! You’re making yourself miserable!” Emma exclaimed. She was wise, but Melbourne was dutiful, and nervous.

“It’s not that easy, Emma.”

Emma sighed,

“She would like to sing with you, William, I’m sure.”

“She’d rather sing with Albert.”

“I don’t think Bertie’s much of a singer.”

“And I am?” William spluttered, a little too loudly for secrecy. A few people turned to them. “Look, I’m perfectly happy where I am, thank you very…”

“William? They’re doing ‘Step Into Christmas’ and I don’t have a partner, would you…?”

It was Victoria. God, she looked stunning in red: red lips, red dress, red heels. William gawped at her for a few seconds before falling into a series of stammers and stutters. _This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening._

“Yes, he’d love that. Wouldn’t you, William?” Emma asked, kicking his leg underneath the table and practically forcing him out of his seat and on to the stage with Victoria. He was used to sitting next to his boss around a table at a meeting in which some employee was droning on about finances. He wouldn’t listen to them because he was too busy looking at her. Now, he was sat next to his boss, staring at the opening lyrics to ‘Step Into Christmas’, feeling sick, but feeling brightened in her company. It was strange: the effect she had on him.

_Welcome to my Christmas song._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Day 3 : Karaoke. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	4. Jumpers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What on earth is William wearing? Modern AU

_“Good lord, that is hideous!”_

William was stood in the kitchen, newspaper rolled in his hand, looking at her with an expression of immense hurt – like a wounded animal or something equally pathetic and helpless. Below those raised brows and that agape mouth, stood the ugliest, most cringe-worthy, Christmas jumper that Victoria had ever seen.

The colour – an offensively bright blue paired with the most garish shade of red imaginable – assaulted her eye. The pattern, something that William would insist was fair isle but Victoria would argue was a disaster, fell jaggedly over oversized shoulders and around tatty necklines and pulled hems. The knit was falling apart at the seams. The size was too small around the chest and too large on the shoulders: something that Victoria had not thought possible. _What sort of person would fit into such a garment?_ Not William, that was for sure.

“What? It’s my Christmas jumper. I thought you liked this whole seasonal thing.”

“I do,” she nodded, failing to tear her eyes away from the travesty that clung to him, “but that is not seasonal… it’s a disaster.” William’s face, initially hurt, now morphed into something even more worrying: regret, worry, fear? “Oh god, William, what have you done?” Victoria asked, knowing that face all too well. It was the face he pulled when he burnt breakfast in bed. It was the face he pulled when he forgot to pay taxes. It was the face he pulled when he broke something of hers.

“Well, I thought,” he began, apprehensively, moving over to the counter where a brown paper shopping bag sat in and amongst piles of magazines and books, “we might be able to wear matching ones,” he declared, pulling a garment from the bag.

If she thought the tat that shrouded him was ugly, she hadn’t seen anything yet.

Where there was blue on his, there was green on hers. Where there was red on his, there was orange on hers. Green and red made enough sense, at least, it was Christmas after all. But green and orange? Were the manufacturers colour-blind? Or were they just _stupid?_ Victoria scanned her eyes across it as William held it aloft. It was hideous.

“Do you really expect me to wear that?”

“I don’t know. I just thought it might be nice. Are they that bad?”

Victoria laughed. William hadn’t expected to hear her laugh. It caught him by surprise. She sauntered up to the jumper and took the prickly wool into her hands.

“You really are an idiot, William.”

"Hey, that's-"

"But you're my idiot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Day 4 : Jumpers. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	5. Snowballs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen has gone outside in the snow. Melbourne takes it upon himself to find her.

Snow fell heavy on London’s roofs. Tiles sagged under the weight of it, shoulders sagged under the weight of it, it scrunched under the weight of shoes, back and forth on their daily businesses, in spite of the snow and in spite of the bitter cold. It had made Lord Melbourne’s journey to the palace slow and uncomfortable. His breath clouded in front of his eyes as he sat in the carriage, and he rubbed his hands together, bringing a little bit of fleeting warmth to his fingers, which had turned white and numb. They had to stop more than once, the wheels caught in the snow, and Melbourne was becoming increasingly irritable and increasingly impatient.

When the carriage finally stopped (or, more accurately, skidded to a stop), Lord Melbourne placed his hat firmly on to his head, pulled his jacket closely around his shoulders, and shivered. _Wretched fashions._ They offered him little warmth. He thought himself chilled through to his very bones. He was more than ready to warm himself in the palace, which was sure to have fireplaces ablaze.

Having his hat taken from him, and his jacket eased off his shoulders by a manservant, he was told in the politest manner,

“Her Majesty is in the garden, Lord Melbourne.”

_The garden? Good lord._

“By what authority?” he asked, a chill, separate to that from the winter’s air, taking a hold of him.

“By her authority, sir,” the manservant replied, seemingly confused by Lord Melbourne’s panic at such a simple fact.

“Have you felt how bitter it is, man? She will catch a chill!” he cried, not wasting another moment. He knew the way to the garden, Victoria and he had walked through it together many a time – albeit not in so cold a climate. Not having the time to sling his coat back on, he was exposed to the mercy of winter. And winter was not a merciful mistress.

Pricking his cheeks with ice, near freezing his saliva and tears, perhaps even his blood, he sought out the Queen. Should he call her? He daren’t. Boots kicking up the snow, skin pimpling, he staggered towards the water, where he had found the Queen residing before, and hoped he would again. Fear, irrational perhaps, crept like ice over the surface of a lake into him, suffocating him, as his mind was confronted with the prospect of the Queen being taken ill out in the snow. Whatever convinced her to go outside in such frightful weather?

_Crunch._

A force, hard momentarily but soft as soon as he had realised the contact had occurred, struck the back of his shoulder.

_What in the world?_

He turned, and saw the Queen, ducked behind a bush, wrapped up tightly in a cape and a bonnet but flushed and red-nosed in the cold, packing together a ball of snow. A mixture of confusion and relief passed through him. He could have felt irritated, but it was difficult to find the Queen irritating. Near impossible. He did not know whether laughter was appropriate in such a situation. He did not know what was appropriate in such a situation. It was not one he had prepared for upon becoming Prime Minister: approaching sovereigns? yes; talking to sovereigns appropriately? yes; advising the sovereign? yes. Receiving the invitation for a ‘snowball fight’ from a sovereign? No.

She was giggling at him, holding a second snowball in her hand, but hesitant to throw it now that he had turned to her, and could see her, and was not reciprocating, or even laughing. She had a folly that he might join in: but she feared that it was becoming less and less likely.

“You must be cold, Ma’am. Perhaps it is best if you return inside?” he said, adopting a tone of friendly sensibility, as not to give the Queen the impression that he did not find her amusing. He was wont to have her think that. But that was exactly how she took it. The wind well and truly out of her sails, she dropped the snowball to the ground and, bashful and downhearted, she turned and began to trudge back towards the palace.

_Crunch._ Her shoulder jolted. She stopped in her tracks. Did he? She swerved on her heels. Lord Melbourne was stood in the snow, arm raised, fighting off a smirk.

“Lord M…?”

Melbourne raised his hands in mock-defence, raising his brows and pleading,

“I felt compelled to defend myself, Ma’am.” (He was fighting off laughter as he spoke.)

Victoria advanced on her Prime Minister. Her hands were placed on her hips and her head held high in the air – she, too, was fighting back a laugh. With all the dignity she could possible feign, she declared,

“That is treason!”

“Very sorry, Ma’am. It won’t happen again.”

Victoria smirked, bending down and grasping a handful of snow, before jeering,

“Won’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Day 5 : Snowballs. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	6. Ice Skating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria and William go ice skating.

Ice skating was the archetypal Christmas date idea. Strange, considering ice skating is a terrifying venture in which one or more members of the party will inevitably receive an injury and, if that person is not you, you will live in constant fear that it will be you – and therefore be miserable for an hour.

_What was wrong with walking?_

At least, that was the opinion of William, who saw no pleasure in skating on ice, but agreed to the idea because Victoria had seemed so keen.

The day, up until that point, had been lovely. They’d taken a look around the shops, went for a coffee and took a stroll around the Christmas markets. Why Victoria would wish to ruin everything with an ice skating session was beyond him. But she grabbed his arm in her little mittens and pulled him towards the rink, where they received ice skates which, to William, looked more like lethal weapons than an idea for a fun activity, and were given an allotted time over which they would circle around and around over an oval of ice.

Ice, by nature, was slippery. He was told that transport on ice was made easier with the addition of blades but, as he began to waddle out on to the ice, he did not believe such a claim. It did not take him long to realise that Victoria had done this before, and was adept. More than adept, she was speedy. As he was still in the process of waddling out, gasping the wall with both hands until his fingers seized up, Victoria had spanned the circumference of the rink once, and appeared behind him again,

“Come on, slow coach!” she cried, taking his hand, slowing down to accommodate for him. He teetered, almost losing his balance before she took his arms. His anchor. “Hey, hey, you okay?” He nodded, panting, white as the ice they skated on. “Have you… ever done this before?” she asked, a smile spilling onto her mouth. He told her he hadn’t, ashamed. “I’ll teach you. Take my hand.”

He did as she asked, slowly shuffling from the side, shakily.

Their gloved hands knotted together, she pulled him away from the wall, and forced him into movement, at first stilted and tense, until her laughter, ease of manner and careless happiness began to feed into him: perhaps passed to him through her hand, a courage that coursed through her veins to her fingers, scattering from her fingertips and doping his bloodstream. Perhaps transported in a smile, beamed from her lips and her teeth, carried in the energy, the purity, the simplicity. Perhaps in her laugh, in her voice saying his name, in her eyes. Whatever gave it to him, he felt his legs grow stronger and his heart grow surer.

_Ooof._

Victoria cackled at William as he fell with a thud onto the ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Day 6 : Ice Skating. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	7. Mulled Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William returns home to the smell of mulled wine.

“Victoria?”

His joints creaked like the door he closed. It had been a long day, and he was tired. He shook off his umbrella, spraying rainwater on the bottoms of his trousers, and called again for her.

“Victoria?”

_No reply._

The silence was unusually thick. Pouring down his throat, cloying in his ears, lulling his eyelids. There was something vaguely alcoholic about the air, too warm to be comfortable, more groggy than anything. William wished to open all the windows to let this air out. He imagined it would pour from the windows like molasses. The rainwater on the pavement would soak it up, dilute it, and the drains would drink it in, syrupy and sweet. Spicy, too, he detected spices in the air.

He climbed the stairs. It was empty downstairs. The spices grew stronger, and the air grew more viscous, and he heard a small noise. Like a rustling, a clinking, a laughing, muffled and chiming.

It was only when he put his head around the bedroom door that he saw the source of the noise, and the cause of the thickened, spiced air. Victoria was sat on the bed, cross-legged, hair falling in front of her face, laughing at her phone, a glass of something dark in one hand. She didn’t stop when he entered the room. She hardly seemed to notice him at all.

“Victoria?” he asked.

“Look at this spaniel!” she cried, practically hysterical, her phone shaking in her hand and her entire body racked with her laughter. Melbourne looked at the glass in her hand. It was mulled wine. He’d made it last night.

“How much have you drunk?”

“Oh, not much! Look at it! It’s swimming!” She shoved the phone into William’s hands. She was right. The spaniel was swimming. He didn’t see how it was quite so hilarious. Perhaps he’d understand if he was legless. “Isn’t that funny?” she asked. William nodded, just to indulge her, before reaching over and taking the glass from her hand. “No! I wasn’t finished!”

“I think you are, love,” he said, putting the glass on the side before taking her hands and leading her to the pillow. “I think it’s time for bed.” She was a silly drunk; she always had been. He thought she was cute when she was drunk, but he was also aware of how late it was, and how ill she’d feel tomorrow.

She was also a pretty drunk.

“Oh, William, I think I’m drunk,” she said, simply, holding her head and giggling again.

“I think you are,” he replied, chuckling under his breath as he pulled the duvet away from the pillow and led her into the bed. Still giddy, but suddenly seized by a sleepiness, she folded herself between the mattress and the duvet, and allowed William to tuck her in. He did so, and then sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at her.

“I missed you tonight.”

Her words wounded him. They say alcohol brings the truth. The truth hurt.

“I missed you too,” he replied, softly, taking a lock of brown hair between two fingers, and pulling it away from her face. “Are you comfortable?” he asked. In a drunken haze, she could still recognise the love his eyes bore her.

“Yes, thank you. Night,” she croaked.

She was so beautiful. William’s lungs swelled with an instinctual draw of breath, shuddering through his nostrils and filling his chest. Her eyes, glacier blue, fluttered as she fell into sleep, and her dark hair gathered in waves around her shoulders, brushing her cheek which had turned ruddy with drinking. The breath was forced out of him, shuddered out in a half-sigh. She had him floored: mind and body.

Smiling a little in the low light, William stroked the back of Victoria’s hand before standing and creeping out of the room again.

“I love you,” a voice muttered. He stopped.

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Day 7 : Mulled Wine. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	8. Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melbourne writes a letter by candlelight.

By candlelight, blood still icy in his cheeks from a long journey, Lord Melbourne took his mind to his pen and his pen to his ink and then to the page, where he unclasped the contents of the mind which was distressed, aching, and conflicted.

Writing letters in the dark by only the light of a candle was a romantic way to write, rather than practical, and he understood that and he knew that such behaviour was laughable. Robert Peel would scoff as to snuff out the candle that lit the page. He, too, would probably scoff at such folly later. But, on this night, he knew he could not sleep without sitting to write, and this small flame would suffice.

The smallest flame, lurching around a steady wick – black in the white fire, but smouldering edges tarnished in orange. It smudged into the surrounding darkness. The flame crept higher sometimes, reaching in rapid swipes of heat into his chamber at Brocket Hall which had grown cold, a blue fog seeming to claim the place, clouding the windows and extinguishing the light. This was the only light in the house, this little candle, and perhaps the only light for miles around, as far as he knew. Only the moon offered light but inky clouds blotted its silver like an inkwell spilled over the sky. The stars, too, were veiled. Smothered and suffocated, blackness was all that existed beyond the flickering of that candle, and the small amount of light that it threw upon the page, upon his hand, and just upon the edges that curved his face.

Trying his hardest to draw threads from the knotting in his head, pull them taut and unravel the mess, streaming a coherent trail from himself and putting it down on to the paper, he bit his lip and began to write.

_My Dearest Victoria._

No. No, he could not write that. That would be treason, surely. If not, it would cause more trouble than it would give him pleasure to write it. To took a fresh, clean, clear sheet of paper, and tried again.

Your Majesty,

I sincerely hope your Majesty is well. I extend my hopes to the Prince Consort, and your small children. I am sure you are making a very happy family for yourself, and that is all I can wish for you. As to my health, it is sound. I have certainly felt weaker, but I admit I have felt stronger too. The winter is harsh and Brocket Hall feels the cold more bitterly than London residences, I am afraid. The country air does wonderful good for me, but I suffer in the latter months of the year. But, I remind your Majesty, that my health is sound.

Forgive me if writing to you after all this time is too forward, believe me when I say I do not intend offense to your Majesty. The reason for my writing comes from a trip I made to London today, on business. The city is looking fine. Your Majesty’s England is prosperous, and I would expect no less. I considered paying Buckingham Palace a visit, but decided against it; not for any fault of your Majesty’s, but I felt it may appear inappropriate to arrive uninvited, as I am sure your Majesty understands. I did, however, pass the gates of Buckingham, and peered out of the window to gaze upon the estate that housed many a happy day that we shared.

In the darkness that falls so quickly on these December days, I could not ignore the glow of every window. It is so dark in my room at Brocket Hall, but the remembrance of those windows is keeping me warm, and continuing to light my surroundings, even now. And, now, I cannot banish that sight from my mind. I am consumed by it. I could not help but picture the festivities inside, the music you play and the joy you indulge in. I saw the garlands hung outside the palace and on the gate. What a wonderful idea! It is sure to fill even the most vulgar subject with the spirit of the season. What an example to set to your subjects! It looks beautiful.

You once told me about the German tradition of bringing trees into the house, and decorating them, and I told you it would not catch on. But it has caught on, as the country follows your example in all things and – for that – I am thankful. I do not have a tree to decorate at Brocket Hall. I do not have decorations. Brocket Hall is not carrying garlands. It is not nearly as handsome as Buckingham. They would feel vapid without you there to see them.

I wish to see what the interior looks like. I know you must have done wonders, your Majesty. You have always been so keen on the Christmas season, and that it sure to be reflected in the decorations. Reds and golds, sprigs of green, silvery flashes perhaps. I wonder what your tree looks like. How tall it is, how many decorations it holds, how many candles.

I am lit by a candle now, your Majesty, but I am sure it is not as bright as those that light you. Perhaps you bring the light.

I do miss your Majesty, and I wish to see you soon. I dearly wish to see you soon. My body is tired; I feel I need your company now more than ever.

Send my love to your darling children, wish them a happy Christmas, and think of me if you can. And I compel your Majesty to receive the love I send her, the love of her dearest friend, and the wishes I send for her to have a restful and prosperous Christmas. I will try to do the same.

Your humble friend, always,

_Lord M._

Stifling a sob, he took two fingers and pinched out the flame, and the darkness consumed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Day 8 : Candles. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	9. Christmas Films

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord M is a Hollywood movie star, who just happens to have been captivated by his leading lady.

Lord M had garnered many a leading lady in his time, but never had he found one quite so captivating.

He remembered the first day on set, a grim day, overcast and grey, and he was sitting in a bar. By bar, he meant that he was sitting in a bar made of three thin cardboard walls, filled with actors, the space where a third wall should have been housing lens after lens, all pointing at him.

“Two Brits in Hollywood. What are we doing here?” she purred, perching on the barstool next to him, leaning across the bar and taking a long drag of her cigarette. He couldn’t speak: he was too busy staring at the roll of paper clasped between her painted lips. _God_ , he’d seen Victoria Alexander in films, sure, but he didn’t think she’d be quite so ensnaring. “Miss Alexander, but you can call me Victoria. Charmed.” She held a hand out to him. That, too, was painted, her nails red. He stammered briefly before shaking the hand and spluttering an introduction. This wasn’t becoming of the Hollywood leading man that Lord M had spent years and years shaping himself into; and Victoria was disappointed.

“So, Lord M, that’s not your real name, is it?” she jeered, running her finger around the rim of a glass of brandy.

“No, I – uh-“

“No smoking on set!”

“God, darling, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” she muttered, extinguishing her cigarette in the glass of in front of her. It sizzled. She turned back to him, urging him to continue.

“No, when the cameras are off, my name’s William.”

“William, huh? Ever met William Holden? No? The kid’s going places.”

William couldn’t help but notice that Victoria spoke like an American. It wasn’t her accent, no, that had the familiar tang of the Queen’s English: but it was what she said. He’d spent years resisting American slang, to keep the British flair that Hollywood loved him for, and here she was. She didn’t care for any of that. She was intoxicating.

“Handsome, too, you know. A real star.”

Upon returning to his trailer, William could not banish those words from his head. They consumed him. What had she meant by that? Surely, that had some sort of meaning. Something hidden within it. He lay awake, running the words in his head over and over again, studying the tone of voice, and the way her red lips curled when she said it. It consumed him ever since.

Now, filming the final scene of the film, he found himself no more comfortable around his leading lady than he had been then. In fact, contemplation had made him more of a coward. The fake snow falling into his mouth made him cringe: it tasted sharp and chemical. It gave him a headache. The summer’s sun burned his eyes. The camera lenses were reflecting it. Heightening. Brightening. Intensifying. The director called action. He found himself in the middle of a snowstorm, with his lover wrapped in his arms, helpless and small, depending on him, clinging to him.

“Oh, George, you came back!” she wept. His line. He was lost in her eyes. What was his line?

“Of course, June.” Yes. His heart thumped. That was it. _Thank God._ “I could never leave you.”

“I’m never letting you out of my sight!”

Her lips were on his, her hands wound around the back of his neck, her body pressed against his as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her up until her feet left the floor. The fizzle of lights and the scuffle on set melted with the fake snow until her lips were the only things on Earth. Soft, warm and entirely his. Scouring him. Sending a prickle of electricity through him, making his hair stand on end.

She pulled away, dropping back down to the ground. Did she feel something? Still holding him close and smiling warmly at him, eyes filled with stars, she cried,

“Merry Christmas!”

_“And, cut!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Day 9 : Christmas Films. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	10. Presents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William is an excellent present-buyer. Victoria struggles a bit more.

Stood in the middle of a department store, surrounded by shelves and shelves of consumerist paraphernalia – all stocked for the nightmarish Christmas shopping – Victoria realised that she had no idea what to buy for William this Christmas. And that was a thought more nightmarish than Christmas shopping: the absence of it.

It would be less frightening if William wasn’t so bloody good at it.

Every year she would peel back the wrapping paper (the sort of artisan, textured stuff that make Victoria cringe as she looked over at the cheapy paper she’d used) and unveil the most thoughtful, kind, imaginative present possible. There was the time when he bought her a telescope after some vague, late-night conversation about the stars in which she confessed her fascination for them. There was the time when he bought her a necklace: a rose gold chain around which was weaved enamel orchids, so tiny and so fine, because he knew how she liked the flowers. There was the time when he bought her a recording of _Lucia di Lammermoor_ , after hearing how the mad scene made her cry without fail. Every present was thought-out. Every present brought a tear to her eye.

Meanwhile, on Christmas mornings, Melbourne opened a bottle of cologne, a pair of novelty Christmas socks, a book about politics that Victoria wasn’t aware he already owned. He always told her he was grateful, always thanked her, always kissed her – but she didn’t believe him. And felt guilty.

She had decided that she wished to make this year’s Christmas present something special. She’d thought for hours and hours. She’d listened to everything he said, and analysed it for some present-giving opportunity. But none arose. And she had no ideas.

And so, she stood aimlessly in and amongst the bottles of cologne, the novelty socks and the satirical politics books, and chewed on her lip.

But then, as if some merciful deity had made it dissolve into her mind, she had an idea.

“Merry Christmas!” she cried, holding out a present, wrapped in artisan, textured wrapping paper and ribbon. The paper concealing the gift was brown, but dotted with jet black silhouettes of corvid birds, all sharp beaks and muscular forms, inquisitive flashing eyes and strong talons. The ribbon was red, and he pulled it, thanking her as the bow fell apart. He was every grateful and, as ever, not expecting much – he was never one for material goods. Her company was enough for him.

But he couldn’t help but be intrigued by this uncharacteristic care placed on the presentation of the present, and he was curious as he peeled away the paper, and let it fall away.

There was a box inside. It had peonies on it. Peonies were his favourite flower. She remembered. They were not on the box originally, William could see that, and he realised with a leap of his heart that they had been painted on. He knew that Victoria had dabbled in painting occasionally, and he knew that she was adept, but he was not aware of the skill she possessed. Their forms, fleshy and pink like a blush, bleeding out in curling petals into the white box, fringed in pale waves with a hand so delicate and precise.

“God, Victoria, that’s…”

“Open it,” she prompted, beginning to blush the same shade of pink as the peonies.

He did as she bid him. There was a small clasp at the front of the box which clicked when he released it, and he unfolded the lid. Shrouded in layers of white tissue paper, glinting in the small amount of white light creeping through the gap in the curtains, lay a pen. A beautiful pen, polished, well-formed.

“Victoria, I… I don’t know what to say. Thank you, that’s… that’s lovely,” he stammered, a lump in his throat. He was always thankful for the presents she bought him but this one was just so thoughtful. It caught him off guard.

“Read it.”

Engraved on the side of the pen, in a cursive font, similar to Victoria’s own handwriting, were just two words. Two small words that echoed through him.

_My Rook._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Day 10 : Presents. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	11. Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melbourne has Victoria's next dance.

Festivities danced in the air, tolling like the bells ringing out over the Thames, and there was the unmistakable feeling of mirth in everybody’s chest and on everybody’s lips.

A ball to celebrate the Christmas season was not an uncommon event to be held by a monarch, but Victoria had a great desire for her Christmas festivities to be more memorable and more special than all that came before her. Christmas was very dear to the Queen’s heart, and she wished for all to share in her appreciation for the season. If she could fill one other heart with the same joy that dwelled in hers, she would have succeeded.

She had the palace adorned with gold and red: ribbons strung across rooms like the trails of shooting stars, just as bright and just as pretty. Red flowers were bound together and placed in vases, billowing out in crimson petals, velvety and warm, drooping softly in the lowlight, sparked a little by the candlelight. Beeswax made the light soft and warm: even the unfriendliest face was made kind by such a light. Carols were played, and such a music swelled in every corner, pushing the windows out as the wind struggled to cave them in. She dressed herself in gold, and tied her hair back in red, and pinched her cheeks until she glowed like she’d been out in the snow.

Everyone was golden.

Victoria, sipping on champagne, caught the eye of her dear Lord Melbourne, shrouded in a haze of opulent gold that blurred the sharpness of his cheekbones and the creases on his face, until he was all smooth and misty. His skin was immaculate and tinged with a sort of shimmer that the candles brought out in him, as if his skin was transparent and liquid gold ran through his veins. The honey in his eyes, often lost in the green, flashed in coppery shards. Surely, he was the most handsome man in all of England. Surely, Victoria was the luckiest woman to have his company.

“Merry Christmas, Lord M!” she chimed, the warmth of the candles feeding warmth into her voice and softening the blue of her eyes. She clasped his hands, and brought them close to her heart where she wore the flowers he had gifted her for tonight: red poinsettias. One of his fingers brushed over a petal of them: they were silky and yielded to his touch, like skin, touching her skin. Her skin. “The flowers are beautiful!” Lord Melbourne cleared his throat, clearing his mind of distracted thoughts. Perhaps it was something in the candlelight, or in the heady cloud of alcohol claiming the room, but he felt his judgement being dulled. He was made breathless by her.

“I am glad you take pleasure in them, Ma’am. I take great pleasure in seeing you wear them,” he replied. Feeling nulled and intoxicated by some sensation other than drunkenness, something he could barely understand, he asked her, “Could I have the honour of the next dance, Ma’am?”

Her breath hitched. He saw it shudder in her bosom.

“Of course.”

His hand looped around her, fingers spreading over the small of her back, just high enough to be appropriate, but low enough to make the Queen’s heart surge. He took her hand, almost deaf to the music that would accompany their companionship, and they searched the other’s hand through hesitant fingertips, brushing skin, sweating palms. Her hand fell over the shoulder of his jacket, rough but firm and broad. When he began to move on the dancefloor, she almost fell, crying out or gasping for air, but quickly forced herself into the rhythm. Once prepared, she fell into it easily, with him to guide her. They turned, and the turning turned to spinning and the spinning to freefalling – with the world around them meaningless. Like a dream. Non-existent. Far-off. Him being the only constant to her, and her to him. The Christmas festivities continued around them, but they were blind and deaf to it. Only to hear the other. Only to see the other.

If he hadn’t a hold on her, she would surely fall. If she hadn’t a hold on him, he would do the same.

They said not a word, not with their voices, but their eyes spoke sonnets.

In another world, he would have stopped to kiss her, then. But this world did not allow it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Day 11 : Dancing. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	12. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria and Melbourne watch the stars.

“And what of that one?”

“That is the pole star, Ma’am.”

How they came to be together, in the gentlest night December had harboured this year, fawning over a night full of stars, was a result of a near abandoned palace and a wilting carpet of snow.

They could not have stood together on the balcony in the cold if it had been any other night. There would have been too many servants around, forcing them apart or forcing them into meekness. But, tonight, the servants were wrapped up in blankets and huffing over candles, and so they were quite alone. There may have been a reason for Lord Melbourne to leave, but there was not, tonight, and, even if there had been, the wet sludge that the snow had left on the roads was perilous beneath carriage wheels. He would not stay the night, of course, but he saw a reason to stay a little longer than he might have otherwise. Just to look at the stars for a while. Just to look at her for a while longer. To talk to her, just for a while.

And, so, brought together by circumstance but more strongly by the prompting of their desire, the Queen and her Prime Minister were stood on the balcony in the cold, and the dark, pointing out stars from the scattering of light on the sky.

It was cloudless, spotless except for the spots of silver, and the night was quiet. The only unpleasantness was the bitter cold but one’s body soon became numb to that.

“The pole star? Is it so bright!” she breathed.

“The brightest star in the night sky, and it is immovable. All the other stars move around it but that one, that one stays completely still,” Lord Melbourne explained, pointing at it, filled with a sort of admiration for the celestial. It was not an unusual feeling for him. It came upon him often when stargazing, a pursuit he rather enjoyed. The stars fascinated him: they were so steady, so bright, always the same and the same to everyone.

The stars reminded him of her, now, particularly the pole star. The brightest star of all. The unmoving star. The most beautiful. The highest point.

He was looking at her, and she saw him looking and turned to him, too.

“I thought we were stargazing, Lord M,” Victoria said, curling a smile around her words. She was not a fool. She could see the faint glinting of love in his eyes, even in the darkness, and however much he tried to hide it. It made her giddy, to think of his affection for her. Not just affection, perhaps, but desire. Her pulse quickened when she thought of such a thing, and she cursed herself for it. What a thing to think! She was being rash. She could not assume that he felt the same desire for her that she felt for him. But, watching those eyes, she was sure she could see it.

_Tell me._

He blushed. He thanked the stars that it was dark, and she couldn’t see it. He could feel it. Clearly. It burned his face. He cast his head down, instinctively, to hide it.

“I find myself distracted, Ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 12 : Stars. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	13. Snowman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria awakes to an empty bed and a snowy morn.

There was a fog on the ground. It mingled with the crystal dew until the grass, once green, seemed grey. Or silver. Depending on how the light met it.

Victoria awoke to the sound of birdsong, and an empty dip in the bed next to her.

When she eventually pulled herself from slumber and waddled, yawning and rubbing her eyes, to the window, she saw a creature, round, short, and blobby, standing in the back garden, looking up at the window. The creature was made of fresh snow, two twigs, and a couple of rocks making his steely grey eyes. It was a snowman.

Victoria had not made a snowman. In fact, she could not remember the last time she’d made a snowman. Surely, she hadn’t made a snowman since she was a child. She couldn’t remember the name she’d given the last snowman she made, nor could she remember what it looked like, what it wore, how tall he was and how wide. And, now, as if he had come there of his own accord, a snowman was stood in her back garden.

She was almost expecting him to wave his stick arms at her.

“William?” she called. He did not reply. “William?” She began to move to the staircase, calling down it towards the kitchen where she assumed he was. Again, there was no reply. Had he left for work? No, it was a Saturday. She skipped down the stairs, pulling her dressing gown tighter around her shoulders, and called his name again. This time, from the back door, she heard his reply,

“Yes, dear?”

Victoria stopped. She had not expected his voice to come from the back door. What was he doing out there?

Wait. No. Surely not.

“What are you doing, William?” she asked, walking to the back door and peering her head around until she could see William Lamb patting snow on to the snow creature that had formed in the back garden. He turned to her with the glow of pride tinging his cheeks. Or was it the cold? She hoped it was the cold.

“Building a snowman!” he called. She was sure she had never heard him to happy, like a child on Christmas day, not a grown man building a snowman in the garden.

“Why? Victoria asked.

“Why not?” he replied.

She did not quite know what to say to that.

“Pass me out the scarf, will you?” he asked, pointing to the table behind where Victoria stood, where one of his scarves was bundled up, woolly and warm and not wanting to be wrapped around a pile of inanimate snow. Victoria took it in her hands, slipped her slippers on to her feet, and brought it to him. He took it from her, thanked her, and wrapped it around the snowman’s ‘neck’.

“Is it in need of such a thing?” Victoria asked, studying the snowman’s eyes, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Of course, it would get cold if it didn’t have a scarf.”

Victoria paused, looking at his handiwork. It was a fine snowman, that was sure. But, still, he was an adult. Or, at least, he claimed to be.

“I once called you: William Lamb, human disaster, didn’t I?”

William blinked. Hurt.

“I… I think you did.”

“This is reaching new levels.”

“What?”

“You’re insane!” she said, raising her hands, defeated. What kind of boyfriend leaves his girlfriend in bed to go and build a snowman?

“That’s a bit harsh. I thought it-“

William’s lips were stopped with her kiss. It dwelt there, warm in the cold, and it made him shudder. Weak in the knees. Beating at the heart.

“That’s why I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 13 : Snowman


	14. Sleigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dashing through the snow, in a two-horse open sleigh.

“Sledging, you say?”

“Yes, at Windsor Castle.”

“Oh.”

Lord Melbourne confessed he had never been on a sleigh. He did not know whether he was entirely cut out for the pursuit. Victoria, however, had invited him and he felt obliged to take her up on her offer. It was Christmas, after all.

A pair of handsome horses, dark and strong with muscular flanks and intelligent eyes, stood before the sleigh, in which the Queen was already seated. The hour was early and the air was chilled, and Lord Melbourne was surprised to see the Queen looking so awake for, God knows, he was not. The two horses had peacock plumes, fountains catching the light in pearlescent green and cobalt, on their bridles and they were scattered with tiny silver bells. As small as stars, and as white, and glinting just the same, they chimed whenever a horse moved.

The Queen, upon seeing her Prime Minister’s approach, called out,

“Lord M! How glad I am to see you!”

Melbourne, smiling instinctually at the Queen’s joy upon seeing him, approached her with a quick remark,

“What a fine sleigh, Ma’am.”

It was a fine sleigh indeed though, he confessed, he had few to compare it to. It was red and gold, as Christmas should be, with red velvet lining the inside. He thought it must be impractical, to have velvet lining the interior of a sleigh, where snow and sleet must batter it. But it made it far more handsome. That was sure.

“Hooper and Company had it made for me. It is quite beautiful, isn’t it?” Victoria agreed, turning her eye over the sleigh, running her hands along the velvet seat, cheeks dimpling in her pride. “Come in, there is a seat next to me!” she cried, budging over a little to accommodate for her Prime Minister who, stealing a little breath, climbed into the sleigh next to the Queen and sat. “You have never been on a sleigh then?” He replied he had not. “Oh, that is a frightful shame! At Kensington, I had a miniature one pulled by a pony.” She laughed. He laughed. And then the sleigh began to move.

It moved slowly at first, and not at all smoothly. Every rock in the snow, jolt in the road and dip in the ground was shown in the movement of the sleigh, rocking, jolting and dipping over and around them. Melbourne had to curve a hand around the seat to steady himself. His knuckles were white in the pursuit to keep still. He was afraid of knocking into the Queen.

The Queen was quite steady. An accustomed sleigh-rider, he assumed. He wished he had such elegance.

Soon, however, when the sleigh had picked up a little speed, the journey grew fantastically smooth. They were no longer trundling over snow and rocks, but gliding over ice. Hardly even ice: more like air. The wind took Melbourne’s breath away, buffeting against his face, leaving it numb so it tingled, but it was a beautiful sort of numbness. The sort of numbness that makes you feel even more alive. Reminding you that there is skin to whip, blood to freeze, flesh to null.

He turned to Victoria, who was laughing as they flew over sweeping slopes, moving under skeleton branch weighed down in blanketed snow, crisp and white as fresh paper. She was red in the cold. He had never seen her look so. She was often pale like porcelain, wearing a gold crown, her cheek damask and smooth. Ivory stealing away her colour. A marble bust of a Queen, just the way she should be.

But this was a woman. Victoria, now, not the Queen. And Victoria was tinged with colour, red pricking her cheeks and purple creeping over her lips. The blue in her eyes flashing with light, colder now than ever, like ice. She turned to Melbourne, and saw him equally human. Red cheeked, carelessly smiled, breath forming clouds that she could feel condense on her own cheek. Handsome, she thought. Beautiful, he thought.

Passing under another leafless tree, twisted by the elements, two rooks preened each other, kicking snow off the other’s black feathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 14 : Sleigh. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	15. Mince Pies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria is under the weather.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, looking down at something that resembled the woman he loved, but was flatter and smaller and fluffier than he remembered her. It was her: but she was curled up in a blanket, practically smothered in it, looking a little grey.

“I’m ill.”

“Ill?”

“I’m cramping.”

She looked to him with an expression that could only be described as a plea for help. Or cake. Or just a hug. Please?

“Ah,” William replied. He could tell now. It was obvious from the colour of her, the way her body curled, the mood she had been in recently. He’d hardly noticed, not really, not being one to complain of Victoria’s moods but, instead, letting them wash over him, allowing himself to be a rock in her tide.

What a blessing it was to be a man.

Victoria held her abdomen, groaning. She felt like she was being pulled apart from the inside. What a Christmas miracle. Merry Christmas to her.

William sauntered over to her and, supporting himself on the arm of the sofa, he leant over and kissed her on the forehead. She reached up into his kiss, but he was gone almost as soon as she had felt it brush her hairline. She wanted to call him back, but he was gone. She wanted to shout at him, but she knew it would hurt too much and she couldn’t be bothered to. She slumped. William was normally so sweet to her when her period was due.

She heard the lock of the door click, and then close.

“Hrrumpff,” she groaned, “who needs him?” she muttered to herself, reaching over for the remote before changing the channel and crossing her arms. God, he was infuriating sometimes.

Fifteen minutes passed until the lock on the door clicked again, and then footsteps, and then rustling in the kitchen. She didn’t heed them. Then there was the clinking of plates, the creaking of the fridge door, the whirr of the microwave and the loud ding when the microwave finished. And, then, the final noise of them all, and the one that filled Victoria with the greatest emotion, she heard William enter the room.

She turned to him, and noticed that he was holding a small plate with a mince pie placed on top of it, and a smooth dollop of cream placed next to it.

“I know how much you like them,” he said, passing her the plate. She did like them. She liked them a lot. She liked them more warmed up. She liked them more with cream. She took it, thanking him in a small voice. He left the room again to put away the rest of the shopping, leaving her to stare at the little pot of pastry on the plate, topped with a buttery holly leaf, and dusted in sugar.

Maybe he wasn’t so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 15 : Mince Pies. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	16. Fairy Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee Shop AU. Victoria decides to decorate.

_“Ooof!”_

Victoria was reaching for a hook, on the very tips of her toes, practically stretching her arm from its socket. All she had to do was to take the string of fairy lights and hook them over the hook, and then the coffee shop would be ready for Christmas. She’d taken it upon herself, being the first in in the morning, and she did not consider her small legs when she’d made the decision.

It was still early, forty-five minutes until opening, and she calmed herself with the thought that she could take her time.

But she was beginning to think that all the time in the world would not give her the opportunity to overcome the limits of her stature and hook these lights over the hook.

“Would you like some help?”

Victoria was on the very tips of her toes when she heard a voice from behind her, and she jumped so much that she almost fell over, shrieking. The voice behind her offered a quick and sincere apology for frightening her, and she turned to see William, in his uniform, fighting off a smile at seeing her misfortune.

“When did you get here?” she gasped, fixing her hair and panting, heart flipping around inside her chest.

“I’ve been in the back. I heard a scuffle, thought you might want some help.”

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” Victoria replied, stubborn as ever. “I can manage on my own.” And with that – and a deal of flourish – she turned away from William and returned to her pursuit, cursing the redness creeping on to her cheeks. Every time. All he had to do was speak to her and it made her melt. It was pathetic. _Breathe, Victoria, breathe._

William watched her, not offended, but patient.

Victoria took the string of lights between both of her hands and reached up. Damn. Just a few more inches would be enough for her to reach. She stretched to the tips of her toes. No. Just a bit more. She stretched her hands out. No. Just a bit more. She jumped. Almost. She jumped again. Just a bit more. She jumped again. No. Not yet. She jumped once more: this time, falling into the wall on her way down, thumping her elbow and wincing in pain.

“Are you sure you don’t want my help?”

God. _Why did he have to be so tall?_ It was disgusting. Unfair. Unbearable. It made Victoria want to scream.

But she needed to get these lights up and it did not seem that she was going to do it any time soon. Not now with a throbbing elbow.

Resigned, but indignant, she moved towards her ‘giant in shining armour’ and passed him the fairy lights. He took them, smiling at her. Her heart tugged at her to smile back, but her mind told her to remain stiff. She followed her mind.

He smiled at her stubbornness. It was sweet.

He sought out the hooks with ease, and stepped back to admire the fairy lights that now adorned the coffee shop. He looked to Victoria, who flicked the switch, and all the lights illuminated. Like a sudden rush of warmth, of Christmas spirit, that distinct tugging on the heart that is only felt in the depths of December, when the air is cold and the mood is happy, the lights glowed. Little spheres of warm gold like embers rising from a log fire scattered across the walls and around the door.

They glanced at each other, only very briefly, hoping the other wouldn’t notice. But the other did. They quickly averted their gaze again, but could not rid from their minds the image of the fairy lights reflecting in the other’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 16 : Fairy Lights. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	17. Candy Cane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria finds a candy cane.

Victoria’s hand stretched out for her keys, hung on a loop over a hook in the wall. But, when her fingers had sought out the keys, she noticed that it was not keys that was looped over the hook in the wall. No, not the keys at all.

Her fingers explored the new addition to the hook before her eyes eventually turned to it.

A candy cane, wrapped in a fine red ribbon, was hooked over the hook.

She did not see who put it there but, knowing that no one else had been in the house in the past couple of weeks, she assumed it was William who had decided to gift her a candy cane, out of the blue, as a surprise. It was not out of character for William to do some little act of kindness, or a little thoughtfulness to drive him to something like this, but Victoria was confused as to why he did not tell her about it, or just gift it to her himself.

But, no, he’d left it on the hook where she kept the keys.

“William?” she called, unhooking the peppermint stick, swirled round in red and white, and looking it over.

“Yeah?” he called back, from the kitchen.

“Where did this candy cane come from?” she asked, beginning to laugh, walking towards the kitchen where William was sat, reading a book. He turned to look at her, eyes raised in surprise.

“What candy cane?”

“Oh, don’t be stupid.”

“What? That one?”

“Yes, this one! It was on the hook,” she said, laughing more now, waving the candy cane around like a wand of some sort. William kept up the façade, shaking his head.

“It wasn’t me,” he replied, shrugging two shoulders which threatened to shake with laughter, but he fought it. “Perhaps it was the Christmas fairy.” The corners of his mouth began to twitch. He was perhaps the most unconvincing liar she’d ever met. She was glad of it. It was cute.

“Oh, stop it,” she groaned, popping the end of the candy cane into her mouth. It tasted minty and it tingled on her tongue. William finally conceded into a laugh,

“I can’t resist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 17 : Candy Cane. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	18. Chestnuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William can smell burning.

William Lamb had a book in his lap, and he was just turning over the page, delving into the next chapter of the story, when a faint sting caught in his nostril. Sulphur? Gas leak? No. No, it wasn’t that at all. It smelt like toast, like charcoal, like the firewood once the fire had been extinguished. It was the same bitter scent. The air prickled with it. Practically buzzed with it. Was he cooking? No. Was the apartment on fire? It wasn’t coming from his apartment: he would begin to feel the suffocating heat if it were. If it was coming from another apartment, surely, he’d hear something, like a crackling, a screaming perhaps. And why weren’t the fire alarms going off?

Many questions came as he sat, fingers still clasping the edge of the page he was in the process of turning, and not a lot of answers.

He turned the edge of that page over on the pads of his fingertips for a few more seconds, sniffing the air like a predatory thing, before finally resolving to find something out. He placed the book on the side, not caring to save his page, and headed for the door.

The smell was more pungent now, smothering, burning his corneas, making his eyes water. He looked down the hall, a cough urging in his throat. He took a few steps down to the left, and the smell weakened. He turned and walked down to the right end of the hall, and the smell dimmed yet again. He moved back to his door and felt the choking come upon him again. It was not coming from his apartment so, by the process of elimination, he deduced that it must be coming from his neighbour’s apartment: across the hall from him.

He didn’t talk to his neighbour often. They exchanged words in the hall sometimes – when they caught each other. He would just be locking his door and she would be opening hers, and she would chime ‘Hello!’ at him, and he would respond with a curt ‘Morning.’. It was a little thing they shared, something that many would think nothing of but – to William – it meant quite a lot, and he had become quite fond of his neighbour, whilst still knowing very little about her.

He knew that she was small. And that she was friendly. He knew that she liked listening to operas of all things. He knew that she liked stargazing, as he sometimes saw her looking out of her window at the stars, if he was particularly late getting home. He knew that she was very pretty, but he tried not to dwell on that detail. And he knew that she had two particularly close friends that came over sometimes: a young woman with dark hair who he’d heard was called Harriet, and Emma, a friend of his, in fact.

He was surprised that Emma had never introduced them. It was a thing that he assumed mutual friends did.

And, now, having hardly spoken to the girl who lived across the corridor from him, he was knocking on her door to inquire about a burning smell.

The door was opened, and the smell became increasingly sour and increasingly gag-inducing. Her face, however, was a silver lining to the dense fog of smoke that was emerging from her apartment. She wasn’t looking too friendly but he didn’t blame her. Her hair was sticking out in odd clumps and her brow was shining with sweat.

“I’m sorry. I… I live across from you and I smelt burning. I was wondering if I could help in anyway?”

She huffed, drawing a hand across her forehead. Her mouth opened and closed a few times but no noise emerged. She seemed to look straight through him, frazzled.

“What’s happened?” he prompted, trying to look beyond her. “Can I…?” He was about to ask if he could come in, but stopped himself with a skip of the pulse as he realised he was being too forward.

“I was trying to roast chestnuts,” she puffed.

“Oh.”

“I burnt them.”

“I see,” he said.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked. She opened the door for him and he entered. It was a room much like his, but touched with fine little details that he thought were most pleasing. It would have been a beautiful place if it weren’t doped with the acrid smell of burning chestnuts.

The chestnuts in question were sitting in a pan, now placed on the side, smoking and black. They looked more like coals than nuts. How did she manage that?

The woman began to fumble with the pan, trying to scoop the nuts out with her hands but dropping them with a gasp as they burnt her hands.

“No, no, let me. Let me,” he said, moving towards her and taking her place as she stepped back, rubbing her reddened hands together and furrowing her brow until it was all lines and creases and shadows. He gathered the nuts, trying not to make a noise as they burned him, and shovelled them into the sink, where he ran water on them to cool them down, before transporting the pile of soggy, charred nuts into the bin, and then clearing up after himself.

All the while, Victoria was perched on the windowsill, watching him, and feeling an uneasy warmth creeping into her blood, making her headlight. He was very kind, she thought. _Very kind._

She thanked him, fighting a blush, and showed him out. She could recall brief interactions with her neighbour before this day but promised herself then that she would make an effort to get to know him a little better. What a nice thing it was to think of her.

“Merry Christmas, by the way,” he said, just as he was about to cross the threshold into his own apartment. A smile curled on her lips and she replied,

“Merry Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 18 : Chestnuts. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	19. Brussels Sprouts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria does not like Brussels Sprouts.

“How can you eat those things?”

“Eat what?” he replied, popping a tiny green ball that resembled a miniature cabbage into his mouth and beginning to chew on it. Victoria looked on, revolted.

“Brussels sprouts.”

“Don’t you like them?”

“I hate them.”

“Bit harsh,” William replied, spearing another miniature cabbage on the end of his fork. “What’s a brussels sprout ever done to you?”

“I’ve never liked them,” Victoria began, cutting her potato in half, and beginning to push it around in the puddle of gravy on her plate. “Ever since I was a kid. My mum would always try to get me to eat them: she’d tell me how good they were for me, or how they’d make me taller. As if that was the only object of my desires – an increase in height. But I hated them. They smell funny. I always thought that. When they cook, they smell funny. And they taste worse. They’re just green mush, aren’t they?”

“Not when they’re cooked right!” William replied, swallowing a second sprout, a little offended that Victoria could imply that his brussels sprouts were no more than green mush. Her mother’s may have been (having met Victoria’s mother, that fact would not surprise him) but his most certainly were not. At least, he hoped they weren’t, and nobody had ever told him that they were.

Emma, in fact, had once applauded his sprouts. She, too, was not a sprout fan but, after trying those prepared by William, had considered herself quite the sprout convert.

“Go on, try one,” he said, spearing another small cabbage – Victoria began to ponder on whether it more resembled a cabbage or a lettuce – and beginning to wave it at her. She pursed her lips together, on instinct, the way she used to when her mother would wave sprouts in her face. It didn’t matter how she tried to force the sprout into her mouth, her lips would clamp tightly, turning white, and not let any food pass. Like a barricade of childish fervour. A childish fervour that she had not grown out of. “Go on.”

“No.”

“Oh, please.”

“I don’t want one.”

“You haven’t tried one.”

“I have.”

“Not one of mine!”

“No offence, William, but I don’t think it would make any difference who cooked them. They could be cooked by the Queen of bloody England and I still wouldn’t like them!”

“Nonsense. Come on. Just one.”

He was still persistently waving the sprout around. Victoria was flushed. He could be infuriating sometimes. He was normally so poised and sensible and charming. Or, at least, that was the persona he offered the outside world. It was not, however, the persona that he gave Victoria all the time.   
Victoria was often confronted with a more disastrous William Lamb. Perhaps that was what she liked about him.

She would be awfully bored if it weren’t for that side of the man she loved.

“Alright! Alright!” she cried, taking the fork from his hand and turning it around and around like a spit roast, inspecting the tiny cabbage or lettuce or sprout from all sides, to check for imperfections that she could object to that would lead to a refusal of it even passing her lips. She could not detect such imperfections. In fact, it was quite a pristine little thing. Taking a deep breath and counting her sins, she opened her mouth and shoved it inside.

William watched with bated breath. Her face flicked through emotion after emotion, never constant, never truly definite, hard to identify. She seemed pensive. No, she was happy. No, she was disgusted. No, it was pensive again.

She swallowed, and William could see the sprout wriggle down her throat. She smacked her lips together, still thoughtful, and she handed the fork back to William, who took it, eyes still fixed on her. She didn’t say anything.

“Well?”

She took another deep breath.

“Better luck next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 19 : Brussels Sprouts. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	20. Christmas Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria decides to decorate the Christmas tree.

Victoria’s fingers were aching and her head was aching more, as she fumbled with cables that slipped between her fingers. She’d been sat there for God knows how long, and her brain was as frazzled as the wires in her hands.

Up until that point of the day, things had been going remarkably well. She had manoeuvred the stepladder just so, to enable her string the bunting over the windows and the garlands around the door and hang the mistletoe in the hall. She had placed the wreath on the door and put the tree up, despite the tree having the significant height advantage. She had even managed to attach the star to the top of the tree. She was feeling positively smug until it got to the matter of Christmas lights.

The Christmas lights were bundled in a bag, knotted and tied and scrambled into a dense throng of black wires, impenetrable by light and fingers. But it was her job to untie it.

It didn’t seem like too terrible a task at first, of course, as she was filled with the optimism of the Christmas season but soon that optimism wore off and she realised that this knot could not be unravelled.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

William raised his eyebrows at the sheer matter-of-fact riddling her voice. She was flustered and pink-cheeked and seemed to be aging by the very second, creasing coming out on her forehead.

“Would you like any help?” he asked, tentatively approaching his grieved girlfriend.

“I am fine!” she cried. Words harsh. Looks harsher. “Thank you very much.”

William raised his hands in mock self-defence and chuckled,

“Very well. If you’re sure!”

Minutes passed into a restless hour and William, who had decided to retire over a newspaper, could hear a long stream of grunting and sighing from the other room, ceaseless and getting progressively louder and more frustrated. He would hear a strangled cry and think to himself that she would surely give up but, then, a few minutes later – to his surprise - he would hear an even louder cry.

More minutes passed, and William hear scuffling and more scuffling and further scuffling before silence. He began to grow concerned. Perhaps she’d tangled herself up in wires and suffocated herself. Perhaps she’d climbed out of the window to escape the task. Perhaps she’d fainted. And, so, when the minutes became too much to bear, he put his newspaper down and went back to the living room, to check on the Christmas elf.

Sitting beside the Christmas tree, head in her hands, was the elf herself. And, on the tree, untangled and perfectly placed, were the string lights, on full beam, glinting and sparking like stars in the sky.

Victoria felt two warm hands take her shoulders, thumbs brushing down the tops of her arms, and she felt a nuzzling cheek at her cheek, roughened just a little with stubble, and she opened her eyes. A voice in her ear, small and low, said,

“It looks beautiful.”

She placed one of her hands on the hand encasing her left shoulder, and squeezed.

“You’re doing it next year,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 19 : Christmas Tree. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	21. Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William isn't thinking straight.

It was the heady time of winter when the fumes of the alcohol seep into the air, and everyone is drunk on it. And it was a time that Queen Victoria of Great Britain and William Lamb, 2nd Viscount Melbourne, will never speak of again, but always hold in memory.

Lord Melbourne was excessively tired, having fallen asleep at his desk every night for the past fortnight with an empty bottle of whiskey beside him, and the effects of alcohol and sleep deprivation were fuzzing his senses and judgement. Such a combination was dangerous, particularly to William Lamb, a man who prided himself on his sense. However, the Christmas season had always mingled with a bitterness of Melbourne, who was always offered a stark reminder of his own loneliness. And so, he drank it away, as if the feelings would smother in excess of fluid.

He had spent the day at the palace, disguising the post-drinking haze and the tiredness behind his wit, not allowing the Queen to know. Melbourne considered excusing himself. He could tell her he was needed at the house. He could tell her he had work to do. He could tell her a million different lies. But something stopped him and so he lulled in the drawing room with her, beside the fire which crackled and spat beneath the low hum of her voice as she talked with him for hours.

He allowed her to speak more often than he, and he was perfectly content in listening. She talked of Brighton, the dreams she’d had, her newfound love of the sweet taste of the Chilean Guava, and Harriet’s latest hairstyle – a fashionable thing, Melbourne admitted, but he confessed to the Queen that he considered some of the French fashions to be excessive. Victoria declared that she would change her hairstyle to something more _à la Mode_ but Melbourne knew that she would wake up tomorrow and have her hair put in the two braids, the same as every day. He knew he would hate it if she ever changed it.

“Do you not think it would suit me, Lord M?” asked the Queen, looking to her reflection in a mirror on the wall, and imagining Harriet’s curls framing her face. Melbourne was half-dozing and half-numb and so replied,

“Anything would look beautiful, Ma’am.”

Victoria’s palms broke out in a sweat. How was she to reply to such a thing? She looked to him and saw him tired and murky, and concluded that he was not aware of what he just said to her. Her mind was ablaze. Was it simply complimentary? Or did he mean something more?

 _Are you flirting with me, Lord M?_ The question she did not ask: whether through an innocent fear, or the deafening of her own heart, the burning of her cheeks.

As the day cascaded behind the rooftops and the sky was washed in golden light, swimming in shades of salmon and orange, Melbourne decided it was time for him to leave, and Victoria saw him to the door as she always did. The pair were still relatively silent, and more than a little flustered.

The hallway was empty, and as still as stone, peaceful but fogged with the fumes from the kitchen: brandy and caramelised sugar. On the top of the last door in the hall hung a small sprig of mistletoe, green and leafy, that almost didn’t catch Victoria’s eye, but it did, burning into her vision, and making her stop in her tracks for fear of falling.

“Ma’am?”

“It’s nothing, Lord M.”

“Are you alright, Ma’am? You look frightened? What is it you were looking a-“ Melbourne’s voice stopped. “Ah,” he said, seeing the sprig on the ceiling. He looked back down to the Queen, who was bright red and tense. Her breath whistled through her nostrils, breaking the silence. “Remind me, Ma’am,” he said after a pause, “of the tradition involving mistletoe.”

Victoria, who had been staring intently at the patterns on the carpet, turned her gaze upwards towards her Prime Minister, before tearing her eyes away almost immediately after feeling the intensity of his gaze upon her. _Was he teasing her?_ She took a long and unsteady draw of breath, looking back down at the ground, tracing the swirls of the fabric with her eyes.

“I believe, one is supposed to kiss beneath the mistletoe, Lord M.”

“Is that right?” Melbourne asked, smiling briefly, and looking around to spot a servant or, worse, her mother or the Baroness. They were not here. Melbourne could feel his thoughts crying out for him to stop, turn around, leave, do the right thing. But, beneath the exhaustion and the alcohol and the syrupy air, the thoughts drowning in _feeling_. “And do you, Ma’am, believe it is important for a monarch to heed tradition?” he asked, eyeing her steadily.

Victoria recognised something in his voice which she had not heard there before. She was unsure of what it was, for she felt she had not heard it in any voice before. But, almost by instinct, she told herself that it was need. Desire. And she allowed it – if only for the thick air smothering her. Or, perhaps, she allowed it because she, too, desired him.

“I do.”

Victoria was hardly conscious as he brushed a hand ever so softly along her cheek, a finger along her jaw and a thumb across her cheekbone. She was numb, so could hardly feel the hand take her waist, drawing along the small of her back, but the imprint of it would be felt for weeks afterwards. And his lips, oh his lips, fell on hers like a droplet rolling on the petal of a rose, melding together as if God had created them solely for that purpose. Victoria’s hand clasped his shoulder and she pressed herself into him, and Melbourne gasped quietly to her mouth. Only a moment passed in this contact, and then it was broken.

Never again. Never forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 21 : Mistletoe. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	22. Carols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William Lamb hates carol singers: that's a fact.

It was a well-known fact that William Lamb hated carol singers.

It wasn’t that he was against carols in general, or that he had no sense of glad tidings, it was just that he found their incessant wailing irritating and unnecessary. Victoria quite liked the odd carol singer arriving at their door, or even a little group of them bundled up in knitted woollens, frosted cheeks aglow, shivering but still happy. She thought it was admirable, people taking time out of their lives, bracing themselves against the cold to bring people a little Christmas cheer - but William could not be persuaded.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Releasing a long and tired sigh, rubbing his eyes as if the very knock had knocked all the rest of the past ten years from him, he said,

“Tell them to go away.”

Victoria, pushing the sleeves of her Christmas jumper up to her elbows, and rubbing her hands together gleefully, replied with a chime,

“No! Come and listen to them!”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No, I’m not. Come on!”

“No. Listen to them if you want, but I’m staying here.”

Victoria skipped to the door, opened it, and stood smiling in the doorway as she was serenaded with _Good King Wenceslas_. They were fine singers, she thought. They were god awful singers, he thought, listening to them from the living room, but trying desperately to stop listening to them. Once their song had come to a close, Victoria thanked them and wished them a merry Christmas, full of warmth and light. William, on the other hand, looked to the heavens, thanking the Lord that they were finally leaving. When Victoria sauntered back into the living room, William cried,

“Don’t they drive you insane?”

Victoria sniffed and, looking down at her boyfriend slumped on the sofa, she replied,

“Bah, humbug!”

Carol singers did not arrive for the next few days, and William was glad of it. Victoria, however, missed them.

However, three days before Christmas day, there was a rapping at the door which disturbed Victoria’s evening television watching. William was staying late at work which, Victoria thought, was lucky, as she could see the faint glow of the carol singers through the window, and she had heard them faintly serenading the neighbours only a few moments ago. Fixing her hair on the way to the door, she began to smile. She was a little tipsy, and it made her all the more festive.

Upon opening the door, Victoria was greeted by a sight that she had never expected to see.

There were the carol singers, the usual affair, scarfed and hatted, red-cheeked and smiley-faced, but, among them, scarfed, hatted, red-cheeked and smiling like all the others, was her boyfriend: the carol-hating William Lamb.

They began to sing, so Victoria had no time to say anything to him, so, instead, she just stared at him through the entire carol. Her eyebrows were creased and her mouth lolling open, head cocked to one side, half-smiling. He did not look back at her, for embarrassment. She could pick his voice out easily from the chorus of others, not very tuneful, but something undeniably pure dwelt in it. He looked down at the ground, eyes fixed. Victoria wondered whether the red of his cheeks was mortification or the cold. Probably both. But, oh, did he look handsome.

He’d done it for her, to make her smile. And it did. She broke out in the most magnificent smile that, though he was not looking at her, he felt. He felt it so clearly that it prompted him to turn his gaze up. And there it was. Brash and beautiful: her smile, dimpled at two corners.

To conclude a rather humourless recital, he looked his love straight in the eye and she saw a cheerful glimmer in it.

_Hark! The herald angels sing_

_"Glory to the newborn King!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 22 : Carols. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	23. Father Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you hear the bells?

“Can you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Bells,” gasped Victoria with all the wonder she was capable of. William could not hear bells. He could simply hear the radio playing faintly from the kitchen: a cheesy Christmas song that he was sick and tired of hearing. But no bells, so he looked to Victoria with a quizzical eye. She was curled into the armchair: head resting on one armrest and her feet resting on the other, a book tucked into her tummy, which she dropped as soon as she heard the ‘bells’.

Her hair was tucked prettily around her shoulders, and her face was mottled with the makeup left over from a party the evening before. William smiled, a chuckle rising through his throat, at her eyes which were large and shining with awe. He could have been Scrooge-ish, if she did not bring her glad tidings.

“Do you think it’s Father Christmas?” she said, rising from her seat and moving quickly to the window, to stare from it at the sky, in the hope of seeing a flash of red light or the trail of a fast-moving sleigh. William simply laughed.

“Father Christmas?” he said, shaking his head and turning the page of his book.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what?” Victoria repeated, turning away from the window and crossing her arms over her chest. William looked up at her and sighed.

“Father Christmas doesn’t exist.”

Victoria let out a sudden and exaggerated gasp, clasping her hands over her ears.

“How can you say such a thing, William?”

“What? It’s true.”

“No, it is not,” she said firmly. William chuckled. Victoria raised her chin, indignant, and threw herself down next to William, disturbing him on purpose. “Why did you stop believing in Father Christmas?” she asked, taking the book straight from his hands. He grasped for it, and was about to protest but then he saw the look in her eye and thought it safer for him to answer the question.

“I grew out of fairy tales,” he replied, shrugging.

“Well that’s no fun,” Victoria replied, smiling and cuddling into him, wrapping her arms around him and nestling her head in the crook of his shoulder.

_Jingle, jingle._

Melbourne’s heart skipped, though he would never have admitted it. Victoria turned to him and smirked.

“Then, what was that noise, William?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 23: Father Christmas. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated!


	24. Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is Christmas Eve, and Victoria has invited her closest friends to the palace.

Lord Melbourne had received the invitation three weeks ago, and had made the journey hastily to London to be at the palace for Christmas Eve.

The invitation came as a surprise, on a rainy early December day at Brocket Hall. He was drifting in and out of sleep beside the window, facing on to the Well Lawn which brushed up against the woodland, which stretched off beyond the eye’s vision into a deep and chilled mist. It was the bedroom that the Queen had always requested, when she made visits to Brocket Hall. It was curtained in red, and well-lit, and the fact she always visited in the summers meant that the crimson shone on the softness of her face, and the sunlight streamed in through the windows and upon her gowns. She had remarked to him once – he remembered it well – that she could think of no better view in all of England than that which she enjoyed from the windows of Brocket Hall. Such a statement seemed strange, now, in the December gloom. In the summertime, the grass swayed in healthy green vigour and the birds sung their little songs without rest. But, now, Lord Melbourne’s tired eyes could hardly penetrate the cloud of vapour which had sullied the crystal window through which he and the Queen had once peered. It made the grass grey, the distant woods grey, and the cold sunlight grey.

But, what a strange coincidence it was that he received the invitation from her in those few hours he spent nodding off in her room, still perceiving a whiff of the perfume she wore in the air, still hearing a laugh from her, still hearing the hushed words that passed between them, long, long unsaid.

And the mist seemed to clear, and it remained clear for the next three weeks, until he took the journey down to Buckingham Palace.

“Oh, how I have missed you!”

She held his hands, tightly, as if not a moment had passed since they were last together. William knew that it had been more than a little moment – more like a lifetime.

“It is very kind of you to have invited me, Ma’am.” That word: Ma’am, it slipped off his tongue with ease, and he missed the way it felt on his lips.

“What would Christmas be without you, Lord M?”

There was a room prepared for him at the palace, on Queen Victoria’s express orders. She wanted to have him overnight, so he would be in the palace for Christmas morning. She had invited all her dearest companions to the palace to spend the morning together: Lord M, her ladies, Ernest, and they would join Albert, Victoria, and the children for Christmas day. It was the most delightful thing in the world for Victoria, and she had spent many a sleepless night beforehand dreaming of the blissful morning.

She could not think of a more sublime Christmas.

The room was prepared to the highest degree of delicacy. It was something Lord Melbourne noted, and appreciated. It was in the Georgian style – very like the rooms he had spent his drunken youth in, rooms he feared were becoming obsolete in this new era that he felt emerging. Had she picked this room especially, for him? The walls were hung about with yellow brocades, and the furniture was made from faux bamboo. It was a fashion which baffled him, but brought comfort to him, in its familiarity. It was a fashion that he knew the late George IV to be exceptionally fond of, for the Royal Pavilion was full to bursting with faux bamboo staircases, chairs, and bedposts. It was a thoroughly Regency fashion, and a fashion that Lord Melbourne felt entirely safe within.

He looked himself up and down in the mirror on the east wall. He took his fingers to his neckcloth and adjusted it, studying himself, olive eyes agleam in the dying light coming into the room. That daylight, weaning in over a distant cloud, almost in a single moment faded into an evening’s darkness – just a few cinders of the sun lingered, casting orange glows on the rooftops, sparking them into an inferno, catching on the mirror and on his eyes. He had hardly moved from his position in front of the mirror. He could faintly hear noises from the palace, and the indulgent smell of fine dining told him that it was almost dinner. He was not hungry and he did not wish to socialise with a party of people.

_He wished for Victoria and Victoria alone._

But he descended the staircase once called and navigated the hallways as if it had only been a matter of minutes since he last found his way to the dining room. He socialised like he knew he should, ease of manner radiating from him, a calm smile on his lips and wine pouring down his throat. He laughed at the jokes he knew he should laugh at. He ate what his appetite allowed him. He took to a small game of cards. Spoke a few kind words to the children. Listened to the Queen and the Prince play the piano.

And all the time he could not rid himself of the tugging at his heart. Oh, how he adored her. He had almost forgotten, in the desolate time at Brocket Hall, quite how besotted he was. But he was reminded of it in the sweetness of her laugh, the wit of her speech, and the sparkle of her eye.

He retired to bed on Christmas Eve, feeling hollow and lovelorn like a lover in youth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 24 : Christmas Eve. Enjoy. Feedback always appreciated! This one comes in two parts, the second coming tomorrow with the finale to my Vicbourne Advent Calendar!


	25. Christmas Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is Christmas Day.

There is something undeniable about the morning of Christmas Day. The bells tolled out over the rooves of London town, stirring William Lamb from his uneasy sleep, and calling the people of the land to church. Melbourne had grown used to the silence of the countryside and was not accustomed to the sound of bells in the morning, nor the early rise the bells prompted, and his eyes opened stubbornly, with considerable effort on his part to separate his eyelids and look into the morning sun, flooding in through the wide windows. The windows at Brocket Hall were not so wide as this, and the sun never so harsh. At Brocket Hall, a tree would filter the harsh morning sun but, here, there were only buildings, the slate rooves intensifying the light. It made fire of the room. It made his eyes sore.

He was not a churchgoing man, of this Victoria was clear and Melbourne did not deny the fact. However, he reminded himself to consider the Christmas season, and he knew that Victoria, Albert and the children would be going to church, and Ernest, Harriet, Emma, and Sir Robert would join them. He knew his absence would be noticed, and scrutinised, and talked of, bad-mouthed and gossiped. He thought it far easier to strip William Lamb away, don the ex-Prime Minister Lord Melbourne, and attend church.

He did as he said he would, securing his necktie in front of the mirror, readjusting it four or five times as he was unhappy with how it lay against his chin and coat. After those meticulous readjustments, pulling it out, realising it stuck out at a funny angle, tucking it back in, he was still unhappy with the placement, but realised that the time was growing thin and the carriage was awaiting him outside the window. He hurried to the carriage, a couple of carriages behind the Queen in the great progression to the Abbey. He did not recognise the other merry folk in the carriage with him and it chilled him to realise that he had been away from the palace for that long, for things to have changed beyond his recognition. Oh, how he wished to return.

There was fresh snow falling on the ground and the Abbey was finely decorated, exceedingly pleasing, honeyed with golden light and cheer and beaming with the merry cheeks of the Queen’s royal subjects, Lord Melbourne among them: ashen cheek colouring a little. Victoria, of course, was the centrepiece, dressed in gold taffeta, ruched around her sleeves and neckline, enclosing her small frame in pale shimmers and creamy buttermilk hues. She wore a crown of flowers, the way she did on her wedding day, Melbourne remembered well, and she had the same demure aura and carefree joy. And she fawned on Albert, of course. Her children followed close to their parents. Melbourne kept a respectful distance, and sang the carols in a low voice as not to break the harmony with his untrained pipes.

And the day broke whilst their voices called out in a single harmony, and the voices of those across London, and across England, and Melbourne took the carriage back to the palace after the ceremony with a bead of warmth in him.

The procession of carriages pulled into the palace gates, and Victoria wished a merry Christmas to all those she wanted to leave, and welcomed those she wanted to stay back into the palace, and they were guided by a few servants to the throne room, where a cake was presented in all its festive glory, sparkling with sugar, and tied in fine red bows. There were gaudy cheers and cackling laughs and comments jeered over the riotous noise and there was a spirit of goodness in the air.

"Lord M.”

Melbourne, who was beginning to make his way from the room that way so full of merriness that he felt unwelcome in it, was stopped by the voice that uttered his name. There was still a lot of noise in the room, and the voice was only small, and he was surprised he’d heard it. But, how couldn’t he? It was hers, and he could never miss her.

“I have something for you.”

She smiled warmly to him, and he looked down at a box she held out to him with surprise. What could she possibly give him? The box was tied up, but he only needed to tug a little on the bow and it slid apart and fell to the floor. He stooped to pick it up, but she told him to leave it, and he obeyed his sovereign. He lifted the lid of the box and revealed a Christmas wreath. A lump rose in his throat.

The wreath was weaved through with three different flowers. First, the peony, blushing softly in pink, hiding bashfully beneath folds of petals, his favourite bloom. She had remembered. The peonies were the mid-tone between the two other flowers. The bleeding red came from the geraniums, which he knew to be her favourite flower, little red faces gathering in bunches of crimson colour, breaking through the green brashly: much like Victoria herself, he thought. He noticed how some of the velvety red petals of the geraniums brushed up against a silky peony, a fleeting touch, barely even there. Then, to bring the white, was the symbol of their companionship, the meeting of the geranium and the peony: the pure white of the sculpted gardenia. He remembered how they sat in the front of her dress, years ago, and how the flower lay between their bodies as they danced. And he remembered how her face had looked at him then: full of love.

From the wreath, their eyes met and she gave a small nod, as if to say she still loved him. She meant it. He knew it.

The wreath hung upon the door of Brocket Hall, reminding William of her, and making him smile for Christmases to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vicbourne Advent Fest Day 25 : Christmas Day. And there we have it! Thank you for reading this series, and I thoroughly hope you enjoyed these little festive stories - I've loved writing them. All your lovely comments have made me smile! Hope you have a very lovely Christmas and a happy New Year!


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